


'Tis a Gift to be Simple (the Young Frankenstein and Jungle, Glitter & Mini Reeses remix)

by blcwriter



Series: Write a New Alphabet [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Drag Queens, F/M, Fourth Wall, Gen, Halloween, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Meta, Multi, Pack Cuddles, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Polyamory, Pre-Slash, Schmoop, Stilinski Family Feels, Threesome, fandom tropes, is it polyamory when it's werewolves, wolves in sheep's clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:02:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three ways of looking at the Hale pack in the week before and on Halloween: </p><p>1) at Jungle, with the whole pack, the drag queens & Peter, ridiculous costumes, and ideas of mating in the air.  Danny's a smart guy, and he's taking the werewolves thing in stride pretty well, he thinks, but he's not looking forward to gay whispering Stiles, and not just because Peter's a hinting asshole who hints;<br/>2) after Jungle, when Derek's ruing dragging Stiles out in the first place, but at least it's quiet, and did Derek mention he really hates trance; and<br/>3) movie night, after the trick or treaters are gone, Derek has plotted the demise of Disney's merchandising department, and really, Mel Brooks is just a screenwriting genius, any supernatural or natural can agree on that, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Tis a Gift to be Simple (the Young Frankenstein and Jungle, Glitter & Mini Reeses remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the changing relationship tags, and that hinted-at complicated pairings are now something more, including evolving threesomes. The dynamics of these are discussed (somewhat) in here. 
> 
> Please also note that the first section involving Danny's internal POV and his discussions with Peter are intended to be extremely sarcastic and a little bit tongue-in-cheek-- but not intentionally mean or stereotypical. I don't, however, think that Danny is the complete, total saint he's sometimes made him out to be, and I think it's got to be interesting to be inside his head, considering how much time he spends with Lydia and Jackson-- there's got to be some real pragmatic calculation going on there, aside from the time he spends calming everyone down and just trying to live his own life, and I have always thought it interesting how in the show, the writers have him react to Stiles' "am I attractive" question, so I wanted to explore a little bit of a different possible re-think on their potential developing relationship within a pack.

“Where’s Derek going?” The alpha stalked past their booth, and if Danny hadn’t seen the guy in action (hello, ferocious!) he’d accuse him of being a caricature of tall, dark and broody, just the thing to attract every twink in the place. Derek, though, ignored every single guy (not a few of whom where bigger and broody, themselves) who threw themselves in his path as he made his way to the door. Mental note: have Lyds and Stiles measure werewolfy charisma. At Jungle, at least, it amped high. And not like Danny needed more mojo, but, you know. Science. Just as long as the bite didn’t turn him into Zoolander crossed with the grumpy cat meme (though to be fair, that was only Derek’s default about 30% of the time) he’d be happy.

Jackson sat up in the booth and scented the room. Danny wasn’t sure he’d get over that… sniffing thing. Everything else, sure, fine, he lived in the X-Files, whatever, at least everyone was done keeping secrets from him, but the sniffing thing? Danny still thought it was weird. 

“Stilinski’s not here.” Jacks tipped his head, listened for something, probably some one of the pack across the packed, lightstrobe-filled dance floor, then nodded. “McCall said Stiles isn’t coming.”

“Thought he said he was.”

“He said, ‘Sounds like a wild time, I bet your costumes are going to look awesome,’” Lydia corrected, her tone sharp as she slid into the booth, the shots in her hands sliding onto the table with nary a spill. The naughty librarian skirt on her costume was an inch short of a full gyno exam, but Lydia managed to sit without flashing the room, because she was classy like that. He had to hand it to Lyds—when she committed to something, she went full-bore. She looked hot in glasses.

“You boys need to pay better attention. Stiles is an accomplished liar to werewolves. Live it. Learn it. Love it. Or just pay better attention.” Her hair flick was supremely annoyed.

Danny was about to ask why Stiles wouldn’t want to come clubbing—he’d seemed to have fun before, y’know, the time Jackson had paralyzed everyone— it wasn’t everyone who got baby-gay adopted by the drag queens, even if that wasn’t quite Danny’s scene, but he bit his tongue on the question at Lydia’s glare. 

Which said, clearly, “I have talked to Stiles about the fact that he is being No Fun and there is serious psychological bullshit afoot besides Hohyay! Werewolves and his quitting lacrosse and breaking up with McCall and giving up Snark and it’s Your Turn to discuss it with him because the girls and I have all tried and now he needs a gay man’s perspective.”

They’d been dealing with Jackson for years. They had a sophisticated vocabulary of glares. The fact that Lydia had decided that Danny was needed for some Gay Whispering bullshit—was. Well. It wasn’t what he had planned on spending his Halloween doing, but he’d seen Stiles and Derek together and he was well aware, just like the rest of the pack, that Stiles and Derek were not. Together. And probably should be. Because aside from being some seriously fucked up dudes with issues who were keeping the whole pack afloat, it was pretty damned clear they were soulmates. Or something. Danny didn’t need to be a wolf (yet, he still had time to make up his mind if that was something he wanted, though he was leaning, 80/20 so far) or a witch (that too, Stiles said he had potential, 20% was still real odds) to tell that.

Jackson, meanwhile, had drunk half of the shots, shook his head, and leant in to nuzzle Lydia. “Derek’ll bring Stiles back, no worries, Lyds, your brain buddy’ll be here in two shakes of an alpha’s tail and then Danny’ll knock some sense into his emo witch brain—wizard? Nomenclature’s a pain in the ass—and then we can all go dance and Stiles and Derek can go fuck in the Jeep or the Camaro or something. Just. Not where I can hear. Because I don’t want to hear my parents, either, and if you ever tell Stiliniski I said that I’ll. Pout.”

“More?” Danny teased, but, that pretty much summarized the situation, so—werewolves. Who knew that medieval mythological creatures were what Jackson needed to help him get his head screwed on right?

McCall and Lahey slid into the booth then, and not much longer thereafter, Argent followed, though she wedged herself in next to Danny and he managed not to roll his eyes (too much) at Lyds at the way she and Lahey and McCall were all trying to be very, very polite. If nothing else, he’d ask Stiles for a rundown on werewolf sexuality as a way to open the convo, since Allison and Lahey’s tension was becoming less about an agreement that “Yes, Scott is a douchebag” while neither one dope-slapped him while he was being a dolt or gave in to his dumb puppy eyes, and more about the fact that there were things they both teased Scott about like nobody’s business, and were looking at one another like—McCall and Lahey (Winter Soldier and Captain America, Stiles was going to be _pissed_ ) looked at one another, except different, because McCall hadn’t figured out the Lahey part yet, even if Lahey had.

Werewolves. Man. 

He got up to dance and took Allison (Artemis, fine, she looked lovely, but obvious, much?) with him, because she, at least, understood the difference between bad touch and good, and dance touching and sexy touching. Unlike Erica, who came up behind him and started fondling his junk.

That girl was shameless.

“Stiles promised me there were no wolf orgies, he used those exact words,” he said, knowing the she-wolf would hear him. 

“You’re the hottest guy in here until Boyd gets back from picking up Uncle Pedowolf,” she replied, but she eased off the action and spun, grinding up on Allison and groping her rack from behind. Allison just grinned and eased her own hands back to (presumably) grab Erica’s ass. The both of them snorted in laughter when Danny just snarked—“I’ll make sure Peter knows you think he’s attractive.”

Also? An “I mauled and ate Bella Swan-Cullen” t-shirt under a leather jacket was _not_ a costume. Even if it was a good t-shirt. After a while, he left the ladies to their dancing, headed off to the bar for more shots, nodded to Ginger and the ladies holding court in the corner, and returned with a tray’s full of shots because werewolves might not be able to get drunk, but they sure seemed to like the idea of drinking. 

Assholes. He had just enough time to set the tray down before Boyd and Peter stalked in, twinks actually squealing at their entrance. Neither one of them had bothered with costumes. Scary werewolves in leather jackets seemed to be their favored look, and none of the usual gay o’clock easy pick-ups seemed to mind.

God. 

Save him from the stereotypes, somebody, please. Now would be a really good time for a feral unicorn herd or something.

“Unicorns don’t go feral. Unless someone slaughters a virgin in their presence,” Peter remarked, choosing to loom over the side of the booth like the creeper wolf that he was. 

“Did I say that out loud?”

Peter snorted. “Your face is as plastic as Stiles’.” 

Except that wasn’t really true, was it? Stiles used to be the kid who babbled—it could’ve been his Indian name-- and he still did, but it was. Calculated. And it always had been, hadn’t it, except now, it was even more blatant, and he didn’t care if anyone knew it anymore. “Come with me.” Peter’s hand was firm on Danny’s shoulder, nails blunt, and Danny wasn’t worried because—Stiles wasn’t, and Danny had dealt with more than his share of creeps in his day. Peter wasn’t—creepy, not that way, not most of the time.

So he shrugged at the wide eyes of the other teenaged werewolves at the table (at some point, Lydia had sensibly excused herself from the table to go grind on Allison and Erica and the three of them were attracting all the lesbians in the place, all three of them, he could not wait to get to San Francisco for college) and got up, following Peter outside the club and snorting in amusement as Peter announced put-downs to all the revelers who threw themselves in his way, then quickly melted out of his path. 

“Too greasy,”

“Too hairy,”

“Too skinny,”

“Too matte,”

“Too short,”

“It really is like the seven gay dwarves in there, if it weren’t for the country music at Elsie’s I’d go there instead, the selection here is appalling,” he said, as they finally got outside, and Peter dimpled at Henry, slipping the dude a twenty to ensure their easy return, and Henry dimpled right back.

Say what you want about Peter, the man knew from entrances and exits.

Danny crossed his arms and waited, while Peter eyed his costume. “Straightforward, but you work it.”

Danny agreed. He wasn’t the most imaginative, he was a hacker, not a gayrotica writer, goddamnit, but Danny Zuko was a good costume, damnit. Plus, he had a pack full of wolves to borrow leather jackets from. It was kind of a gimme. Peter did the shifty-eyed thing all the wolves did when they were listening to something, then said, straight up, “I know all you kids want marital harmony or whatever it is you imagine is going on with Derek and Stiles, but I’d like to suggest it’s not that straightforward.”

“Boyd told you.” It wasn’t that Danny didn’t like Boyd—it was just that Boyd was kind of—a killer of fun, and while he might be Erica’s mate and all that, the fact still remained. Boyd was kind of a sourwolf, too.

Peter nodded. “He did.” He paused, and it wasn’t just for drama, so Danny waited. Peter finally sighed, frustrated by something, and muttered “His taciturnity is rubbing off on me,” before meeting Danny’s eyes and saying only—“There’s teenaged romance drama, and that hurts badly enough when it goes wrong, but you really shouldn’t push at an alpha and one of the more powerful magic handlers I’ve ever met.”

“But they’re…”

“Friends, who respect enough to let each other have breathing room, who don’t poke each other’s sore spots—and can you say that of any of the rest of us, Daniel?-- who protect the pack from danger, and more importantly, are nudging the pack toward something that feels like something that even I, batshit cuckoo that I am-- sometimes can agree, _feels_ right to my wolf?” 

Peter’s eyebrow was finding its natural sardonic arch. “Some things take time.” His gaze flicked away before he looked back at Danny. “Maybe longer than we want it to take.”

Danny crossed his arms, weighing Peter’s words, watching his posture, looking for signs of deception. The older wolf was— apparently less cryptic about things in general than he’d been, and if he and Stiles weren’t bffs, and if Stiles made it clear that Peter wasn’t welcome to just crawl through Stiles’ window like the rest of the pack, Stiles would still call lightning down on any harpy that attacked Peter when he was fighting to defend territory, and he backed Peter up when the man made a point at pack meetings that Stiles agreed with. If Peter was being coy about something or had some other endgame than what he was actually saying, Danny didn’t see it.

“But the Stiles is no fun thing is a problem,” he added, because, well, it was. He wasn’t the same, and Danny wasn’t a wolf, but it felt off—wrong—and it was worse for the wolves, even the ones like McCall who weren’t on the best terms with Stiles at the moment outside of straightforward pack stuff.

Peter tipped his head to the side. “I would argue that your discomfort with Stiles’ demeanor right now is not Stiles’ problem—well. Not on the way that you think it is. If he isn’t acting all happy-go-lucky, then perhaps the question is—was he ever—rather than why isn’t he, now?”

That was actually—a good question. One he’d been trying not to think about much, because nobody wanted to be told they had to be the class clown, and that was basically what the pack was whining about—that Stiles wasn’t being amusing. Or something. Frankly, Danny hadn’t ever really paid that much attention to Stiles, before. The guy’d babbled, sure, but Danny’d always taken it mostly for nerves, that and sheer nerdcore, the ADD or whatever it was. The kid had always been spazzy, but he was always all business with school projects and shit, even with his weird questions and the odd way he’d get on a subject and keep asking questions until you were ready to smack him. 

Like Jackson had, kind of a lot. Which. Kind of a problem, in hindsight.

Danny had always figured he lucked out to get partnered with Stiles, they always got a good grade and half of the time, Stiles would end up doing more than his share of the work because he’d get hopped up on his meds (or that’s what he would say) and he’d do more work while he was already up. It had left Danny more time for lacrosse and Jackson’ s bullshit, so he’d just said thanks and finished his part of the work, figuring not complaining about Stiles was his contribution. 

“He asked me, a while ago,” Danny offered, because oh, sweet baby Jesus, he was an asshole, “if he was attractive to gay guys.” 

Peter arched an eyebrow.

Danny shrugged around his rising annoyance. “I thought he was yanking my chain. I mean, he’s had a crush on Lydia, for, like, ever, everyone knew that, just like everyone knew she loved Jackson, I mean, how dumb could you be, just because freaking Derek was all—lurking Derek-- in his room, changing his shirt to bait me into hacking that.…”

Peter crossed his arms. Looked disappointed. Danny tried not to feel more annoyed with himself, because crazy undead werewolves were not allowed to give him disappointed eyebrows for missing the opportunity to shepherd un-self-aware baby sardonic gays. Nascent alpha werewolf bisexual mates. Somethings. 

“Are werewolves even gay?”

Peter snorted. “Werewolves are whatever they want to be, Daniel. They are possessive. They claim territory, and that includes people. They mate, though that’s more specific than the pack bond magic or the territorial bond. And sometimes mating’s easy, and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, mates die before we meet them. Or are damaged before we meet them. Or—are unsuited. They die, sometimes, and we have to figure it out.” His voice got tighter. “We don’t necessarily pine to death, our human sides keep us from that.” He was looking over Danny’s shoulder at some graffiti as he said…. “Though that might be easier, maybe, if we were more wolf than human in that regard. Having some part of you make the decision that you’re not going to have to go on.”

His eyes, back on Danny’s, burned blue. “Mates have a scent. If you accept the bite, Daniel, you’ll be able to scent your mates, whether they’re human or wolf. I’ve never been able to decide if it makes it simpler, or worse, to know for sure who they are. But if you take it, you’ll know.”

And then, because Peter could be informative until he wasn’t, Peter got up and headed back into the club, ignoring Danny’s called “Mates? Plural!?” like he’d never heard of supernatural hearing over the Ke$ha pounding into the air.

\--

“I hear Peter was being a little bit coy,” Stiles said. He smelt like lipstick—no surprise, his cheek was peppered from the barrage of greetings he’d gotten after being, hah, dragged into the shark chum of drag queens who’d literally pulled Derek away from him as soon as he walked into the club. Since he’d escaped no worse for the wear (well, except for the lipstick and glitter, it was a gay club) Danny figured it was better than 90% of their outings.

“He was,” Danny allowed. He bit his lip from saying more, because he’d maybe had a half dozen more shots than he should’ve, and he was a shitty, talkative drunk. There had maybe been some making out with Jackson. Or Lydia. Or both, at the same time. He had a headache. He needed more shots.

“Werewolves are kind of polyamorous, I mean, I guess to say they’re slutty until they find a mate but they can be mated to more than one person at once, although, I guess, it happens more frequently than with humans, and don’t even get me started on what Deaton won’t tell me about soulbonds,” Stiles said, and he bumped Danny’s elbow, then jerked his head at Jackson, where the dumbass was dancing with Lyds (zombie lacrosse player, every damned year, why was he friends with the asshole, really?) and looking around for someone, “but, they don’t necessarily have to have more than one mate, either? I don’t know. Deaton said they don’t write it down, and it’s not all instinct, the human part plays a role, but you should go for it, dude.”

He watched Lyds and Jackson, and then Stiles bumped him with his elbow again. “He’s scenting. For you. Moron.” His smile was tentative. Kind of shy. A lot sweet. Idiot. Jesus. Stiles was an idiot. Danny too. Werewolves sucked. All of them. Fuck. What was he supposed to do with that stupid little-boy smile? While he tried to get Danny to go hook up with Jackson and Lydia, all menschy like Danny should meet a nice werewolf and a necromancer-mathematician and settle down? Jesus.

Danny blinked, because yes, Jackson had loosened up, lots, in the last couple of months, and he loved Lydia in his own way, but…. But.

“What about you?”

Stiles blinked, that smile dropping. He blinked. Stiles had really long eyelashes. Huh. And oh. Oh dear. Kind of big eyes. Well. He was.

“You’re attractive to gay guys. Or gay wolves, or something.”

Stiles blinked again, then shook his head, a vehement no. “Hey, Danny—look—“

His fingers flashed up in front of Danny’s face. Someone was saying something about droids he was looking for, and then Stiles was smiling at him, laughing and shoving him and saying “Dude, you’ve had way too much to drink, Jackson and Lydia are waiting for you…” and then oh, hey, yeah, they were all going to dance. 

That was cool. Stiles was cool. He was really helpful, Stiles was.

\--

It was late enough that the stars were starting to streak across the early morning sky. The engine of the Jeep pinged beneath them, giving off residual heat. 

“What was Danny asking about?” Derek asked, his jacket-clad elbow jostling Stiles’ as he reached into the bag of miniature Reeses they had open and were sharing as they watched the meteor shower.

“Teen romance bullshit, that and those meddling kids,” Stiles answered, flipping the blanket between the hood and his legs a bit more securely. He’d gotten the Jeep apocalypse ready, incidentally handy for stargazing after getting drunk humans and semi-drunk werewolves home. It was cold at three in the morning, any time of the year. 

“Why did you mojo him?” Derek asked, because he’d heard and felt it, the pull and shift on the pack energy, the strain on Stiles’ center (and Derek’s, though he wasn’t quite sure if Stiles knew the pack bonds went that deep). Stile hadn’t wanted to be there, and then Danny’d been unaccustomedly nosy, when usually the boy was pretty quiet, kept out of Stiles’ business except for research, that and school work. 

Of course, he and Stiles had discussed the Jackson/Lydia/Danny situation, but—Derek hadn’t quite expected it to develop this quickly, though clearly Beacon Hills teenagers never did anything the expected way, and Danny had clearly gotten his paws on some idea Stiles didn’t want to explore-- and Derek was hardly one to be offering advice about people’s love lives, or lack of, or so he surmised from what little Danny’d spit out before Stiles had-- _diverted_ Danny’s attention back to his mates. Which was devious, sure, but since it hadn’t gone further than _ooh, shiny, don’t look over here, forget you brought this up_ , or at least that’s what it had felt like to Derek, he was hardly one to complain. It wasn’t like he hadn’t used his Alpha voice enough that first year.

Still, though, Derek had felt badly about dragging Stiles out to the party if it had resulted in Stiles getting cornered by Mahealani, even though they had agreed. If Derek had to use all his words, interrogatives, too, Stiles had to not sulk in his house doing homework or googling or making potions or any of his eight million other distractions. 

Funny how Derek was doing better with that right now than Stiles. 

“He was poking at things with a stick,” Stiles said. It was a cryptic response, but Derek could smell the distress and worry pouring off of—his partner, for lack of a term his hindbrain and wolf wouldn’t clash over, that and his human side completely freak out. Because Derek was the picture of mature mental health.

“So you thought telling him he was mated to Jackson and Lydia would distract him, instead?"

Stiles shrugged, unrepentant, and Derek didn’t necessarily disagree. “Peter kind of already did, I gather, and it’s not like he hasn’t already mostly known his own mind about Jackson for years. And he’s smart. He’s not going to have a Big Bisexual Freakout. Just a little, Oh, Fuck, Lydia’s a Bitch, Of Course I Like Her kind of meltdown. He’ll be fine. They’ve all known each other forever. They’re more than half the way there.” He pulled his knees up to his chest, not seeming to heed how the motion made his spine grate against the glass of the windshield—even though the sound made Derek’s teeth grit, even through three shirts, a sweatshirt, and Derek’s spare jacket. Between the cross-country team he’d taken up after quitting lacrosse, the magic, and the pack, somehow, Stiles had managed to get even more skinny.

“Eat some more Reeses.” Stiles shoved his hand in the bag, grinning, and Derek stifled a growl, because candy was not nutrition, but teenagers were teenagers and at least sugar-filled peanut butter was a kind of protein. His wolf snorted at that bit of Stilesian logic.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Stiles munched. Nodded when Derek pointed out the next falling star, his heartbeat erratic-content, his scent settling to its usual burnt caramel hay and low grade sour milk of worry. Of course, within ten minutes, he was distracted and forgot all about the damned candy because there was some story about the Hubble Telescope to be told.

“Still. You can’t keep Obi-Wan-ing the pack.”

“Rawr. I’ll rip out your throat with my teeth.” Stiles made the very fierce rabbit fingers and everything. Damnit. No one liked being a hypocrite. Not even Derek. 

Especially.

“Stiles.” 

“Derek.” One of these days, Derek would find a way to conjure Laura’s ghost, just so he could hear her laughing at him, outside his own mind.

Stiles’ sneakers squeaked on the hood of the Jeep as he pulled his knees in even closer, his bony chin now resting on top. Derek wouldn’t have been able to fold himself up that compactly if you cut him into actual pieces.

“Are you going running tomorrow?” he finally asked, when it seemed clear Stiles was continuing to avoid the issue of his avoidance. Hah. _Behold the mighty alpha, attempting to broach emotional boundaries with his pack co-parent_ , he could hear his therapist drawl. Or maybe it was his inner Stiles voice. 

Sometimes it was hard to keep those inner narrators separate.

Stiles shrugged. “Probably. Disco nap, eastern boundary, I’ll send you a text?”

“Sure.”

Stiles nodded, and started unfolding himself and all of his layers off the hood of his Jeep, hopping down and stuffing the blanket, the extra sweatshirts, the candy in back. The extra leather jacket was tossed in the backseat, casual, left there most of the time and smelling of all of the pack because, as Stiles said, the Jeep was the werevan, the lycantaxi, the wolfymobile, and Derek’s spare leather jacket was a handy thing to wrap a bloody were in when they were healing and needed the alpha’s scent on the way to Deaton’s.

If it also happened to be that fourth or fifth layer when they sat on the hood of the Jeep in Stiles’ driveway or off at the lake and didn’t talk about much-- or talked about serious things that they couldn’t talk about in front of the pack-- before Stiles shimmied up the tree outside his room some nights, because Stiles had gotten handy at trees— well. Maybe Stiles was right about not poking shiny things with sticks yet.

“I. Just. PSATs are this weekend, and then the college fair and the early recruiters from the Ivies and the Big Tens are two weeks after that, if we're going to go early admission so we can do pack negotiations and stuff, it's just... we've all got to study.” His voice wasn’t faint for being halfway up the tree, and the sour-milk anxiety smell was stronger. Derek knew that Stiles, Lydia, Danny and Allison had all colluded about what clusters of schools would work best to house the whole pack, that and allow the four of them to get the best education. He still didn't understand how his humans had just up and decided that of course all of the wolves would be going to college, or that of course the humans would be taking care of them, too-- or that they'd already figured out neutral territory laws and the rules of negotiation. Maybe Peter was being useful-- maybe Derek needed to use the internet more. Maybe Lydia was just that psychic and scary. Right now, though-- at least the three-week time frame was some kind of time-limit for revisiting the Obi-Wan thing. Stiles couldn't just hand-wave anyone who didn't know better than to push him too hard on feelings. Funny, how Stiles could kill with a cool hand and mind, almost as easily as Derek, but everything else was so up in the air. Or. Well, not funny at all, not really.

Derek would have to bite angsty dispshit teenagers who were friends with smart humans who had more emotional depth than most of the adults Derek had known, and the emotional security of a paper airplane in a tsunami. He’d be lucky if they made it out of high school without Lydia, Stiles or Allison going darkside—or Allison going darkside again. 

Yeah. Laura was howling, somewhere.

“It’ll work out. Get some sleep,” he ordered, not that Stiles ever did what he was told. Still. He could try. Suggest.

“Stop being a lurking stereotypical beast of the night, Derek, and get your ass in here, I didn’t buy a new bed and hire half your damned pack for afterschool jobs so they could buy me an oversized couch so you kids could run home at almost four in the morning,” the sheriff gruffed from his bedroom. Inside the house, a wall banged. “Stiles, tell him to get his furry ass in here so you can pretend to some fucking sleep, you think I don’t know you’re not going to stay up until he texts you when he gets home? Goddamned nocturnal beasts. Jesus Christ on a goddamned glitter-decorated pogo stick.”

Stiles’ chuckle was darkly amused. “I see we’ve given up on the swear jar after 2 am, c’mon, Der-bear, no one argues with Dad.”

There was that. He swung up the tree with the long ease of practice—a clean pair of shorts (Boyd’s) and a tank (Jackson’s) hit him square in the face as he climbed in the window, Stiles not even pausing as he said “Go back to bed, Old Man,” and banged on the wall to his father’s bedroom, then grinned a sliver at Derek before sliding into the dark of the hall with pajamas, the constant drip of the faucet in the upstairs bathroom muffled off a moment later by the door.

Shrugging, Derek shifted into the pyjamas and onto the bed that smelt of all the pack except Peter—even Lydia and Danny had spent time overnight, and Allison, well. He tried not to dwell too much on Stiles’ friendship with the hunter—she was pack, even if she was McCall’s mate and half the time Derek wanted to put Scott’s head through the wall for the way he scowled at Stiles’ and Allison’s closeness. It was like the boy had never heard of the Dead Parents club. 

Plus, his resistance to pack meant Scott hadn’t dreamt with Stiles like Derek had … begun to, so even though Stiles still wouldn’t talk about Gerard, Derek had an inkling about Stiles’ continuing … darkness of tone, then it was the same as any other occasion when the pack could agree to say nothing and rearrange themselves around whomever’d just woken up, sweaty and panicked to slide out and back in after a glass of water, a shower, some dicking around on the internet or time alone downstairs on the couch with a book.

Casa Stilinski was a little crowded compared to the old Hale house, but it did smell like a kind of home.

\--

“Oh, my god. You’re ridiculous. Really.”

Derek had been emptying another bag of Kit-Kats into the bowl, but the tone of Stiles’ voice cut through the sweet rice and cheap chocolate stink of the candy, that and the smell (soda-pop, pink) of genuine laughter. He’d thought it was late for trick-or-treaters, but the kids had kept coming all night, and Stiles had insisted that handing out candy was something he was going to do, “come hell or Hellmouth, which, not going to happen, those wards are keyed at the borders, dude, someone’s gotta kill you, me, Boyd, Lyds and Deaton all at once to get at the reserves and the leylines, so, yeah, no, no witchy Halloween shenanigans shit, I am handing out candy and watching a movie, goddamnit, so if you wanna come over and eat the leftovers, Dad’s gonna be working ‘til ten because all the kids are gonna be out, throwing eggs and TP-ing trees, because that’s what normal humans do. Hah.”

Frankly, Derek had been more than a little appalled at the stranglehold Disney had over the Halloween costume market. The sheer number of Buzz Lightyears and Meridas at Stiles’ door had been scary. Didn’t anyone go as ghosts any more? Or make paper-mache monster faces? Humans needed to be more afraid of the things that went bump in the night. Stiles was right about the loss of belief. 

He finished pouring the candy into the bowl and padded down the hall to see what costumes the latest arrivals were wearing—only to find his pack. Wearing sheep costumes.

Real, handmade, fleece-and-all sheep costumes.

Boyd looked pissed off. And amused. Erica had swapped her red lipstick for pink, and was crossing her eyes on purpose.

Scott had dressed up as well. 

As the black sheep.

“You’re an asshole,” he said, shoving the bowl at McCall, because really? 

“It was Jackson’s idea!” Isaac pouted, throwing the puppy dog eyes for extra effect, and of course, he’d managed to find fleece that looked longer and fluffier. Fuck that noise. Derek stuck his tongue out at Isaac because that was just dirty pool. Dirty, dirty wolf pool.

Danny was standing in the back of the group, holding a crook, and Allison, dressed like an only slightly-slutty Heidi, was looking—both amused and a little in doubt at Derek’s reaction to the joke. 

“Two shepherds?”

“They do tend to get out of line. A lot,” Danny deadpanned. In lederhosen. Because nothing like taking the shepherd joke to the end and then beating it to death with tight leather pants.

“What are we watching,” Lydia said, flouncing in, her tail bobbing behind her as she plopped onto the couch and called “Jackson, make popcorn!” as she started to unzip her costume and throw it onto the floor—since, of course, fleece would make an excellent cushion. She was wearing some of Erica’s clothes, which should have been ridiculously overlarge, but instead looked endearing—they must have all met up at the warehouse to dress.

“My house, my rules,” Stiles called, as Derek kind of hovered in the living room, watching as the entire pack made themselves comfortable on the couch, on the floor, in the kitchen, and divested themselves of sheep costumes that seemed to be full of jerky, more candy, soda, packets of microwave popcorn, and other snack items.

Well, if the pack was going to crash his movie night with the Stilinski family, at least they’d finally caught on that the sheriff and Stiles were not made of money and they would have to stop eating them out of den and home. Especially since the sheriff and Stiles had been more than helpful in getting the pack part-time jobs because acting like a human and learning human things like earning and budgeting money were actually things that were on what Stiles called “Derek’s Big List of Alpha-y Lists of Alpha-y Things to Teach Little Wolfies To Do.” (Derek just called it his list. He wasn’t verbose.)

“Face it, the black sheep thing? You could feel your little grinchy heart grow three whole sizes.” Stiles’ voice right next to his ear was low enough that none of the wolves even twitched as they squabbled over whether there was enough jerky and popcorn and brie and cranberry dip for tonight or did they need to order a pizza that none of them twitched, and Derek snorted, because it was true. Also, Derek would never get over the deliciousness of Boyd's brie dip. Ever.

“Two and a half.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, brought up the app for their favorite pizza place, punched in an order for pizza and more soda because he couldn’t stand the stuff, but teens, so, whatever, then said, “Pizza, half hour, shut up,” and made his way to the smaller of the three sofas that now stuffed the Stilinski living room so full that Derek was fairly sure Stiles had done something like the inside of Hermione Granger’s various bags and that tent in the seventh book to make it so there was enough room for all the werewolves on pack movie night, even if he couldn’t smell the magic, per se.

On further thought, he sent a text off to Peter about a thought for the contractor and the house, and called to Jackson, who was still in the kitchen. “Put on some tea.”

“Earl Grey?”

“Sure.”

Then Boyd was adding his order and Erica hers, and Jackson was bitching that he wasn’t fucking Alfred Pennyworth, which made Stiles turn a bit pink in delight, because Jackson apparently was more of a geek than he let anyone know except when he was unconsciously peeved, but he just rolled his eyes and went into the kitchen, and Derek kept one ear on the two as the rest of the pack settled and handed food (real and junk) around the room and Allison and Danny returned from upstairs in miscellaneous sweats that smelled of the entire pack. 

By the time the second pizza was done, Stiles was settled next to Derek and everyone was happily groaning over the “I’ll take the blonde, you take the one with the turban” line when the sheriff entered the room.

He ran an eye over the room, took in the sheepskin rugs, said “I’d heard there was a flock of sheep running rampant, glad that’s taken care of,” and turned to say “what hump?” in exact time with Marty Feldman. 

Derek scooched to make room for the sheriff when he came back down, ten minutes later. He nodded thanks to the pizza from Boyd, the soda from Scott, and the plate of assorted candies, jerky, and chips from Isaac. The sheriff’s usual scent—tired, leather, dried oak leaves, gunpowder, was eased over with butter content, and his wolf did a palpable circle-and-settle, nose-down-on-paws inside him. Stiles set the movie to start all over again and no one complained, everyone reciting the “Were wolf, there wolf, there castle” lines like they’d all watched the movie together a dozen times before. Stiles’ chuckle was an almost sub-audible purr.

“Didn’t think you’d be much for Mel Brooks,” the sheriff said, later, as they were dumping the remnants of candy wrappers into the trash and the kids were all snoring and drooling on one another in the living room, still. There would be whining in the imminent future, after he woke up Stiles and they herded their erstwhile sheep, hah, up to bed, but for now, it was … lots of things Derek didn’t want to think about as a human but that made his wolf very content, the way everyone had sort of gravitated into a heap on the floor, content grunts and drools and whimpers that were the same noises all young mammals made, whatever the species.

Derek snorted, suppressing a burp. He shouldn’t have had that fifth slice of pizza—or he should have had some of Stiles’ ginger tea? Something. 

“I was raised by wolves, not savages, sir. That movie’s a classic.”

The sheriff’s grin was as sly as Stiles’ ever was. “Well, I was raised by not wolves, but yeah. Froderick. Some things never get old.”

His hand was warm, firm, on Derek’s shoulder as he passed him, then went and knelt next to Erica, shaking her shoulder. “Hey, Goldilocks, wakey, wakey, time for all good little wolves to go pack pile upstairs, the floor isn’t the best place to sleep when you’ve got a test in the morning.”

Erica blinked, smiled, sleepy, slurred, “Mmmm, Chemistry sucks, Harris is mean, I’m gonna gut him the next time he picks on Stiles,” but then she uncurled from the pile, picking the still-sleeping Lydia up and curled her into her arms before pecking the sheriff once on the cheek. “Night, Dad-Sheriff,” she smiled, then swerved into the doorway to peck Derek once, “Dad-Derek,” and head up the stairs without hitting the fourth one that always creaked like it was a trap.

Derek and the sheriff got everyone sorted, though somehow this meant that at the end of all it meant the sheriff was already snoring and he was standing in the doorway to Stiles’ room, staring like a dumbass at his pack cuddled up-- Erica/Boyd, Scott/Allison/Isaac, Jackson/Lydia/Danny, with room at the edge for Stiles. And him. 

“Mnnnrf,” Stiles mumbled, more asleep than awake, as he half-fell, half pushed himself out of Derek’s arms to kick his sneakers toward his closet, jerk his jeans off in the most awkward of all possible ways, and fall face-first onto the space left to Danny’s right. How did someone that awkward manage to run so very fast? And kill so very well?

“Get your furry ass in bed,” he grumbled, turning over to glare at Derek. “There wolf. Here, bed.” His long, pale fingers plucked at the Star Wars sheets, because Isaac thought it was funny that there were lots of Admiral Ackbars all over the sheets. (Stiles did, too, because he was sardonic and it was always a trap. Derek didn’t like to think about what a closet geek he was, sometimes, because he got the jokes, mostly, and also because this was a strange world in which they made Star Wars sheets for adult-size beds.)

The laugh that burst out of his chest hurt, it felt like it had been pent up so long, but Stiles didn’t question, and his shushing “Go back to sleep” at the rest of the pack had them obeying even as they rumbled like a litter of puppies. 

“It’s that simple, is it?”

Stiles rubbed his hand over his face, the skin on his forehead dented by the seam of Isaac’s pants where he’d fallen asleep downstairs. 

“Nothing’s simple always. But right now, yes, Derek. It’s that’s simple. Bed.”

His heartbeat was steady, even. And his eyes shone that weird honey gold brown they’d always been, even before he’d started doing magic, clear and strange eyes that didn’t look away from things that scared the hell out of him, even if Derek was no longer one of those things. That didn’t mean there weren’t things Stiles wasn’t terrified of and wouldn’t talk with Derek about, but—that just made them two of a kind. Which wasn’t simple, but maybe wasn’t something to be scared of, right now, either.

He was tired.

He liked Mel Brooks movies.

His wolf liked it here.

Liked Stiles. 

This pack. 

His. 

Theirs.

All of it.

And if other things were more complicated?

He inhaled a deep breath, the room full of the scent of the pack, the funk of teenagers and all they’d done with their day, Stiles’ ozone magic protections overlaying the house, the sheriff’s scent in the next room, the smell of leaves turning outside and Halloween candy and Stiles’ own sweet cured grass and caramel smell most of all, the smell of it all filling his lungs before he let it all out, inhaled again. 

Exhaled. 

Inhaled.

“Quit scenting me, creeper wolf.”

Stiles’ tone was fond, and he didn’t say anything more when Derek’s wolf burrowed in a bit closer. 

Okay. 

He could let it be simple for now.

**Author's Note:**

> So-- there it is, the first talk of actual mates and mating and both Derek and Stiles being generally aware that mating is a thing that happens to werewolves and humans in their (Derek's) pack. And that they spend time together. Apart. From the rest of the pack. And have conversations about conversations they aren't having yet. In my head, each of them know as of this point in this fic that yes, they are mates, but they each seperately know that they're a damned mess and it's a Very Bad, No Good, Horrible Idea to do anything about it. So, instead, they do this.
> 
> I'm not quite sure when the next chapter will be up, in terms of when I post it, and at what point in the future the fic will take place-- but it took me a little longer to churn this one out because the movie night at Stiles' house wasn't going anywhere until the Pack in Sheep's clothing muscled in to take over the awkward conversation I couldn't get Stiles and Derek to have, and I decided that was ok.


End file.
